The Girl in Striped Pajamas
by Girl4Country
Summary: Meet Abia, a young girl trapped in Auschwitz.
1. Chapter 1

The Girl in the Striped Pajama's

Chapter One

My name is Abia Gafnit-I am ten years old, trapped in a place of high fences and evil men. My head is shaved, though I once had a head of red curls like my mother. My father gave me my eyes-a warm brown that smooth's into rich chocolate when I smile (or so my friends say). I was once pale; though with all the outside work we do here I have tanned. I am tall for my age-easily passing as twelve. When we were first brought here, right before we reached the guards, Father told me to tell them I was thirteen. I did. The guard glanced at me once, but only when he asked my name and age. Mother and I were pushed in one direction, Father in another, while Jamimah (my younger sister) and Meical and Mazhe (my twin younger brothers) were shoved towards a group of children. We were being separated without a single goodbye.

It was too hard to get back to them, to try to tell them anything, though we did start yelling 'goodbye' and 'I love you' until one guard came and slapped us across the face. Mother hugged me to her chest as we joined the crowd of women-some as young as I, none as old as Grandmother. The elderly were forced into a fourth group, all of them solemnly nodding to their loved ones, not moving an inch. I clutched Mother's arm, worried that they would suddenly find out how young I was and drag me to the children-all who shivered and cried. Once everyone was separated we were marched along in four separate directions and once we heard a woman run from the group towards the men. Mother made me face forward seconds before gunshots were fired. She didn't return.

Our heads were shaved, tattoos of our number put on our arms, our clothes taken and stripped pajamas given to everyone. Then we were marched, this time in order of our number, to a long building already filled with women. A female Nazi barked orders and everyone scampered to their bunks, clinging to thin blankets and sitting on straw mattresses. She then assigned two more women to each bunk, though they all looked full. Mother was put on one and I another, though the women appeared kind enough and quietly asked me age. I had yet to know them personally and said thirteen-for my safety. A metal cup and a metal spoon were given to each new woman and when the Nazi came to me she stopped and asked my age and number suspiciously.

"I'm Abia-" She slapped me hard and the sting caused me to gasp.

"Your number!" She barked louder and as I held my cheek I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the number I had not yet memorized. "Your age?"

"Thir-teen." I chocked out, clutching my cheek harder as it began to thump along with my heartbeat.

Without another word she shoved a cup and spoon at me and marched out, shouting that everyone must report to nightly roll call as always. As soon as she left the women scampered around, forming groups. Mother came and clutched me to her chest, rubbing my back and kissing my injured cheek. The women on my bunk talked with us, telling us how to perform nightly and morning roll call, when meals were and how tiring the manual labor was. Mother appeared to trust them and between ourselves whispered that my real age was ten and I had hit my growth spurt early.


	2. Chapter 2

The Girl in the Striped Pajama's

Chapter One

My name is Abia Gafnit-I am ten years old, trapped in a place of high fences and evil men. My head is shaved, though I once had a head of red curls like my mother. My father gave me my eyes-a warm brown that smooth's into rich chocolate when I smile (or so my friends say). I was once pale; though with all the outside work we do here I have tanned. I am tall for my age-easily passing as twelve. When we were first brought here, right before we reached the guards, Father told me to tell them I was thirteen. I did. The guard glanced at me once, but only when he asked my name and age. Mother and I were pushed in one direction, Father in another, while Jamimah (my younger sister) and Meical and Mazhe (my twin younger brothers) were shoved towards a group of children. We were being separated without a single goodbye.

It was too hard to get back to them, to try to tell them anything, though we did start yelling 'goodbye' and 'I love you' until one guard came and slapped us across the face. Mother hugged me to her chest as we joined the crowd of women-some as young as I, none as old as Grandmother. The elderly were forced into a fourth group, all of them solemnly nodding to their loved ones, not moving an inch. I clutched Mother's arm, worried that they would suddenly find out how young I was and drag me to the children-all who shivered and cried. Once everyone was separated we were marched along in four separate directions and once we heard a woman run from the group towards the men. Mother made me face forward seconds before gunshots were fired. She didn't return.

Our heads were shaved, tattoos of our number put on our arms, our clothes taken and stripped pajamas given to everyone. Then we were marched, this time in order of our number, to a long building already filled with women. A female Nazi barked orders and everyone scampered to their bunks, clinging to thin blankets and sitting on straw mattresses. She then assigned two more women to each bunk, though they all looked full. Mother was put on one and I another, though the women appeared kind enough and quietly asked me age. I had yet to know them personally and said thirteen-for my safety. A metal cup and a metal spoon were given to each new woman and when the Nazi came to me she stopped and asked my age and number suspiciously.

"I'm Abia-" She slapped me hard and the sting caused me to gasp.

"Your number!" She barked louder and as I held my cheek I pulled up my sleeve to reveal the number I had not yet memorized. "Your age?"

"Thir-teen." I chocked out, clutching my cheek harder as it began to thump along with my heartbeat.

Without another word she shoved a cup and spoon at me and marched out, shouting that everyone must report to nightly roll call as always. As soon as she left the women scampered around, forming groups. Mother came and clutched me to her chest, rubbing my back and kissing my injured cheek. The women on my bunk talked with us, telling us how to perform nightly and morning roll call, when meals were and how tiring the manual labor was. Mother appeared to trust them and between ourselves whispered that my real age was ten and I had hit my growth spurt early.

Chapter Two

All those words leads up to now. Roll call one week into this prison. We get little food and already Mother and I appear thinner, but not by much. Our arms and legs are like pieces of rubber pulled beyond its limit-pieces that refuse to snap back in place. The other women offer short massages for our aching limbs at night if they can fit it in the ten minute break between 'dinner' and roll call. Sometimes a quick massage occurs, sometimes they don't. All I know is that I am in pain all waking hours and hungry almost all the time. I miss my hair, my friends, my family, my life. For once I wish I was in Ms. Keller's extremely boring mathematics class and trying to play my violin for teachers who expect the next Mozart. At least that wasn't to this degree of pain and hunger.

Two months are gone. What little fat was on my bones is gone and my skin is starting to hang loosely on my already thin frame. Mother starts to cry whenever she looks at me and we grow apart-being separated into different work groups, arriving for meals at different times, falling right to sleep at night after roll call. The ten minute breaks between dinner and roll call are shortened to five minutes and during those five minutes Mother holds me and whispers soft words. Her favorite phrase becomes 'I love you'. I live for those five minutes-hearing someone simply say the word 'love' makes me want to cry.

I'll be eleven in another two months-if I live that long. No one speaks of my actual age since the first day. I begin to answer to my number regularly and hesitate when Mother calls 'Abia!' when she sees me. It makes me want to cry, but suddenly I'm becoming numb to pain. It still hurts when one of the Nazis starts beating a defenseless woman for not doing the right work, but it's not like the beginning. In the beginning I would scream 'stop!' and try to rush forward to help her. When the sight of her bloody body reached me I'd turn and wrench, then go and kiss her cheek-later that night I'd do whatever she asked. Now, I flinch and turn away, almost wrenching at the sound. I give her a sympathetic look-nothing more. No one does much anymore. The massages have stopped from the women on my bunk.

I want to beat myself-scream at myself. 'Why is this becoming normal? Why are you letting them take over your life?' I scream it over and over in my mind, but a small part of me has toughened to it. Why? Because if you see it every day, then it _is_ normal. I didn't let them take control, they simply stole it away. I don't cry thinking of being on the outside-I've accepted the fact that I might die here. A ten-year-old girl has recognized the fact that she might die young. It's wrong, but they don't care. Those on the outside-my teachers, my distant non-Jewish family, my friends-they don't care. I can hear them every night in my head, all of them, chanting over and over 'Take the Jews, take the Jews. We care not a single one. Take the Jews, take the Jews, kill them all, one by one.' 


End file.
